


Of Budget Cuts and Diplomatic Missions

by pratz



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, F/F, Historical References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:42:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4262052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pratz/pseuds/pratz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Episode 5 of Season 2 ends on a different note. In which Silas’ Board of Governors votes to send a chargé d'affaires to its sister schools to help address its financial issues. In which Laura, in accordance with the same vote, is appointed aide to the chargé.</p><p>Enter a magical mystery tour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in which the sister is a demanding nightmare in louboutin

 

**(one) in which the sister is a demanding nightmare in Louboutin**

 

Matska Belmonde, Laura thinks, is the kind of Chair that makes Board members desire a trip to Dante’s seventh circle of Hell more than having to attend a Board meeting. An Orwellian Dracula. A nightmare in Louboutin stilettos. Which, irrepressibly, reminds Laura a little bit too much of Miss Belmonde’s mother the late Dean.

 

“Miss Hollis, I presume?”

 

Hell, even the way she drawls her words in that uninterested, condescending tone is a scary resemblance to the Dean.

 

Miss Belmonde, apparently, has the knack to make herself at home even uninvited, because she drags a chair to sit across Laura, crosses her legs, and looks like Her Majesty the Queen is awaiting a boring audience session with her pariah subjects. Laura opens her mouth, but before she can even say a word, a sharp cry of Miss Belmonde’s nickname in Carmilla’s voice—which for once, to Laura’s discomfort, expresses a different emotion other than boredom and annoyance.

 

Her discomfort only grows when Carmilla crosses the room in two long strides and throws herself onto Miss Belmonde, who’s known as Mattie according to Carmilla, for a joyous hug.

 

“When did you get back in town? How long have you been here? I missed you!”

 

Not bored, not annoyed, and apparently chatty now? Laura almost wants to double-check this Carmilla personally to make sure she is _her_ Carmilla.

 

As if reading her mind, Mattie starts speaking, “It’s been a long time indeed, sis.”

 

Laura’s jaw drops as her eyes meet Carmilla’s over Mattie’s shoulder. She’s got the Big Brother part right, hasn’t she? Orwell 1, Hollis 0.

 

“Actually, it’s a perfect time now that you’re here, too,” Mattie says, slowly untangling herself from Carmilla’s hug and turning to face Laura. Her gaze is not unkind, but Laura won’t make a bet over an older sister whose preferred form of greeting is a death threat. “I believe I have something to talk with Miss Hollis.”

 

Carmilla moves so smoothly to stand between Mattie and Laura that in the next second Laura’s brain painfully recalls the sight of the disaster three months ago—the one where all she saw were Carmilla’s scarred back, her tearful eyes over the shoulders, and her suicidal leap into Lophiiformes’ pit.

 

She doesn’t even realize that her hand has shot out to grab Carmilla’s robe over her thigh, as if the gesture could prevent past Carmilla from jumping. Carmilla neither looks down at Laura’s hand or turns around, but she covers Laura’s hand with her own, her fingers soothing against Laura’s skin.

 

The interaction doesn’t seem to escape Mattie’s eyes, because a wide grin then breaks on her face and she laughs. Laura’s hackles rise with the laughter, but Mattie raises a hand, palm up, intending to placate them both. “Have a seat, little sister,” Mattie says to Carmilla, still looking more amused than anything. “As I said, my business is with Miss Hollis, but I don’t mind your being here to listen as well.”

 

“I told Maman to not touch her,” Carmilla says. “I extend the same heads-up to you.”

 

“Of course, of course. You can even make what I have to offer her some kind of gift.”

 

“The her is here,” Laura cuts in, her irritation winning over her initial fear and shock. “You two can address this her directly.”

 

Carmilla’s still doesn’t turn around, but fingers briefly squeeze Laura’s hand.

 

Mattie laughs again, and this time it is less spine-chilling. “Plucky, I see. That’s a quality I admire in people.” Her eyes swoop to Carmilla again. “You’ve found yourself an interesting plaything again, haven’t you, sis?”

 

“I’m not—” Laura begins, but Carmilla’s hold on her hand tightens even more.

 

“Not like it matters, anyway.” Mattie tidies up her blazer. “Now. Back to business, Miss Hollis. Or should I call you Laura, like Carm does?” She flashes a smile, and Laura holds back a shiver at the barest sight of fangs she finds there. “As you have known, the University is dealing with significant financial problems right now. I, as the Chair of the Board of Governors, have been trusted to enforcing the project to restore and improve the situation.”

 

“She’s not a Board member or faculty,” Carmilla says.

 

“She’s a student here, and that’s enough to count her as part of the Silas community,” Mattie counters.

 

Laura _has_ to bristle at that exchange. “Hello? I’m still here.”

 

Rolling her eyes, Mattie untangles her legs only to cross them again the other way. “Yes, human girl, I’m aware of that, unfortunately. However, if you decide to accept the Board’s proposal for you,” she pauses, “I might be inclined to hold out an olive branch to you and your band of chowderheads.”

 

“I’m not doing anything for the University,” Laura snaps.

 

Mattie straightens, and Laura swears she appears twice taller towering over Carmilla. Or is it Carmilla that shrinks? “The Board has decided to collect funds from Silas’ all four sister schools, and, little sister, you’re appointed Silas’ chargé d'affaires. Briefing is tomorrow morning, and you’re leaving tomorrow evening.”

 

“Mattie, I—”

 

“That is prepos—”

 

“I insist, darling,” Mattie cuts them short, complete with a dismissive hand sweep. Laura isn’t so sure if Mattie’s darling is directed to her or Carmilla, and Mattie’s smile makes Laura want to look for a stake in the apartment. At once. “And you, Lois Lane, read the second page of your letter. Your briefing instruction is there.”

 

“I have a briefing, too?”

 

“Mattie,” Carmilla says, a mild warning evident in her tone.

 

Mattie merely leans forward and kisses Carmilla on the cheek. She pats Carmilla on the shoulder twice before blowing the two of them a kiss. “I’ll see you both tomorrow. In the mean time, please refrain yourselves from...” she scrunches her nose, and Laura has never seen any other sniffing that is more presumptuous, “defacing Maman’s apartment beyond cleansing.”

 

Laura can’t even bring it in herself to be shocked anymore.

 

Carmilla flops down next to her on the chaise right after Mattie disappears behind the corridor, still not letting go of Laura’s hand. Instead, she brings it to her lap and cups it with both hands as Laura processes the sudden coming and going of one Matska Belmonde, mini Dean extraordinary and Carmilla’s finally named sister.

 

Carmilla nudges Laura’s arm with her shoulder. Laura does appreciate the hesitant yet attentive gesture, really.

 

“So,” she begins, drawing a deep breath first to compose herself, “that was your sister.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And we’ve been living in your mother’s apartment.”

 

Carmilla takes longer time to answer. “Yeah.”

 

“You—” Laura stops herself, refraining from saying out loud _lied to me_. There are more immediate matters to deal with right now. “You sure are full of secrets.”

 

Carmilla snickers weakly. “It’s part of my charm.”

 

Laura draws her hand from between Carmilla’s, laying it on Carmilla’s robe-covered knee. “I think you should read your appointment letter.”

 

Carmilla shrugs. “I’ve learned not to trust any letters that come with the Silas seal.”

 

She squeezes Carmilla’s knee, more for her own reassurance than for Carmilla’s benefit. “Are you going?”

 

Carmilla lets out a derisive snicker. “You know I’m allergic to stupidity and extra labor. What makes you think I can have a vacation in the sun visiting those sister schools?” She shakes her head. “Mattie is the politician in the family. I might have been Maman’s favorite, but everyone in the family knows I’m not cut out to deal with that kind of garbage.”

 

“But why would she send you if she knew that?”

 

Carmilla shrugs again, looking more helpless than before. “Family business, I guess. I mean, we’re the only Corleones left.”

 

Of all the preposterous yet unerring retorts Carmilla is infamous for, the reimagining of a band of vampires as a family of organized criminals so fond of cigars and cannoli is the one that makes Laura keel over. She even has to rest her head on Carmilla’s lap as she shakes with laughter.

 

“Glad to know my family telenovela can make you laugh, cupcake,” Carmilla grumbles. Still, her fingers are gentle when they thread through Laura’s hair.

 

“Sorry.” She sniffles, half giggling and hiccupping. “It’s just—it’s been a long day.” As she quiets down, she shifts to adjust herself better on Carmilla’s lap. It is only then that she notices Carmilla’s howlingly gaudy robe. “What even is this fashion abomination you’re wearing?” She turns to face Carmilla—only to find herself eye to eye with a blushing 335-year old creature of the night. Who is currently clad in a flashy red robe decorated with— “Are these leopards or jaguars?”

 

“You have all kind of dramatic murder and school politic, and yet my robe is the one you find worthy to comment on?” Groaning, Carmilla drops her head forward until her chin touches her chest, dark hair falling like a veil around her face.

 

“Well, forgive me for looking back on the past black-on-black image of my girlfriend in the middle of your family reunion,” Laura returns, eyes already on the tied knot of Carmilla’s robe. “Although I’m not complaining about this, really. Red looks good on you.”

 

“Is that so,” Carmilla murmurs, velvety voice making Laura’s fingers itch to undo the knot. “Then my choice doesn’t seem wrong at all.”

 

Laura raises her eyebrows.

 

Carmilla’s smirk turns smug and lewd at once. “A family reunion isn’t exactly what I had in mind after last night.”

 

Laura can feel the heat on her cheeks travel further south. That knot? It has to be undone. Now.

 

She’s just done with the knot and is about to push the robe off of Carmilla’s shoulders when a blaring shriek is spewing out from her letter on the desk. “What in the name of Helga Hufflepuff did I do to deserve a howler!” She scrambles to get the benevolent letter of sisterly intervention, which magically flips onto the second page and stills itself on Laura’s hand. Carmilla hovers over her shoulder to read along.

 

Laura is thankful Carmilla is right behind her, because after she finishes reading the page, she feels like sleeping for three hundred years.

 

Her instructions are downright _ridiculous_.

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

 

-.-.-

 

 


	2. in which the magical mystery tour is real but it doesn't have any walrus

 

**(two) in which the magical mystery tour is real but it doesn’t have any walrus**

 

Laura rouses at 11 AM sharp, quietly though, as to not wake the soundly sleeping Carmilla beside her. Slipping into a thick jacket, she buttons it up and makes sure she is properly clothed for whatever briefing Mattie has set for her. She considers kissing Carmilla’s forehead, just in case that something happens and she doesn’t get a chance to greet her good morning, but changes her mind. She will come back no matter what, girlfriend’s cunning vampire sister or not.

 

Styrian winter wind hits her face as she steps out of the apartment. Halfway to her briefing point, her teeth are already chattering when she finds two sleepy gargoyles who stand guard at the door to the dean’s office only a few hundred feet away from the apartment.

 

“Password?” one of the gargoyles slurs.

 

She shuffles through the content of her jacket pocket for her note. “Uh—wait.” Hurriedly, she reads aloud, “Rick's Café Américain.”

 

The gargoyle yawns and lowers his scimitar. “Man, that’s so predictable for Chair Belmonde.”

 

The other gargoyle knocks him with the end of his lance. “Shut it, you ditz. Who knows what she will do to you if she finds you badmouthing her.”

 

“Whatever. She’d better pay the rest of my take-home before that.”

 

The idea that the current financial problems are also affecting the non-human faction of the university seems absurd, but Laura can’t help saying to the gargoyle, “Hope it’ll work out for you, guys.” She ignores the way the other gargoyle glowers at her as if knowing that she _is_ the responsible party for the crisis.

 

A few lit candles provide the only lighting in the six-story office. Laura can’t recall if she has been looking at this building’s file when she was doing her research for SNN. Then again, this is Silas. If her old dorm could collapse half of itself in protest of the latest maintenance budget cut, surely the Chair of the Board of Governors could redesign the dean’s office as she wished.

 

Following the candles, she stops before a thick oak door. Hesitantly, she grabs the doorknocker and almost gets a heart attack when the lamassu ornament of the knocker opens his mouth. Spluttering, Laura raises her left hand and pulls up the sleeve to reveal the batwing charm she wears.

 

The lamassu ornament growls at her, eyes narrowing. Laura notices the black bags under his eyes. “I know who you are, human. This is past my working hour but alas I have to make sure _Carmilla Karnstein’s girlfriend_ gets to the Chair in one piece.” Before Laura can say anything, the lamassu ornament rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Under protection and all. Just get in already. Oh, and be quick!”

 

She slides inside as quickly as she can. The rustle makes Mattie look up from the documents she’s reading, and Laura notices that that the room is simply a common office if not for the lone figure behind the desk who emits intimidation and allurement at the same time. Mattie’s pose is one of elegance— _vampire_ elegance. With her shoulders pulled up straight and chin raised, Laura doesn’t need another reminder that this person in front of her’s method of survival is eating human.

 

Yet of all the things Laura can say about preying, she opens her mouth for an indignant cry, “You’re overworking your employees!”

 

Mattie’s eyebrows rise in an uncanny resemblance to Carmilla’s gesture. It’s a learned trait, then, Laura deduces.

 

“Why, Miss Hollis. While I appreciate your concern, surely you are aware of some... adjustments the university has had to make lately.”

 

“Nothing good will come from executing your sacred adjustments.”

 

“I’m not here to listen to you playing speaker of the supernatural labor union,” Mattie rebuts. “If you haven’t decided to accept my offer, I have better things to do.”

 

Unlike Carmilla’s words from weeks before that sent delicious shivers down her spine, Mattie’s makes her skin crawl with alarm.

 

“I have. I accept.”

 

“Wonderful.” Mattie can’t make her fake enthusiasm any faker. “Now, if you will—”

 

“Only because I don’t trust you not to send Carmilla off to be tortured in Siberia or Timbuktu.”

 

Mattie blinks twice—before her shoulders shake with unbridled laughter. “Tortured? Gods below, you can’t be more wrong, Miss Holis. We torture people. People as in _human_. Your kin.”

 

“Didn’t stop your mother from locking Carmilla in a coffin for decades,” she mutters, “or you from not coming to her rescue.”

 

What little hospitality left on Mattie’s face flies out of the window, and Laura forces herself to hold Mattie’s suddenly incensed glare. “My agreement not to kill you does not extend to not inflict pain upon you,” she says. “I don’t need your smart mouth now, only your cooperation.” She leans forward across the desk, still glaring at Laura.

 

Laura leans forward, too, an act of not backing down from a challenge—somehow it has become her defining trait. “My cooperation depends on some conditions.”

 

Mattie narrows her eyes. “Who do you think you are to bargain with me, _human_?”

 

Laura ignores the jab. “You are not to mess with Carmilla, or my friends, until this whole school envoy business is taken care of.”

 

Mattie fingers twitch, and Laura isn’t sure if she’s itching to reach for a pen or _her_ neck. To her surprise, Mattie merely says, “You have a deal.”

 

“Good. Alright, then. I guess it’ll make it easier.” Laura leans back. “After all, nothing is worse than having to deal with you.”

 

Mattie’s annoyed expressions flits to brief solemnness before it breaks into a wicked mirth. She stands, walks around her desk, and sits on the edge of the desk facing Laura. “I hope nothing really is, Miss Hollis. I sincerely do.” She gets to her feet again, this time to retrieve an envelope from a cabinet. “Your itinerary is detailed here,” she says, handing the envelope to Laura. “I hope you don’t have any questions, because I don’t really have the patience to answer them. Carmilla might be able to answer them, if you must. Now, if you’d excuse yourself.” She makes a hand gesture of shooing Laura out of the room.

 

Before the door closes behind her and the lamassu ornament bares its teeth at her, Laura takes one last glance at Mattie, still terribly intimidating even with a stunning painting of a golden sunset at a beach as her backdrop.

 

Vampires, she supposes. They’re so nightmarish they’re beautiful.

 

-.-.-

 

The walk back to the apartment is less eventful, but a brief drizzle of spiders and a sudden appearance of a whirlpool in the middle of the shortcut she takes are enough to dampen her already rotten mood. She’s grumbling under her breath by the time she closes the front door to the apartment and takes off her jacket.

 

Carmilla is still asleep, curled under the thick duvet on the bed with both hands under her chin, and Laura feels like smiling for the first time that day at the sight.  She lifts the edge of the duvet quietly and slides next to Carmilla. The digital clock on the nightstand displays 2:12. Sighing, she closes her eyes. Who knows that dealing with a vampire PR par excellence can take a long time—a long, exhausting time.

 

She drapes a hand on Carmilla’s waist, and her palm slips under the thin fabric of Carmilla’s tank top.

 

Carmilla jolts at the touch. “Your hand’s cold.” Her murmur is heavy with sleep.

 

“Mm.” She snuggles closer, nose almost touching Carmilla’s. “Wanna warm it for me?”

 

Carmilla hums low, and a corner of her mouth lifts. “I can think of one or two ways to do that, Miss Hollis.” The name douses Laura cold, and her hand freezes from stroking Carmilla’s waist. The sudden halt doesn’t go unnoticed by Carmilla, sleepy as she is. She opens her eyes. “Laura?”

 

“I’m... fine,” she breathes. “It’s just the briefing with your sister.” She winces. “Oh my god, we’re leaving this evening.”

 

Carmilla’s hand comes atop hers on her waist, and she grins. “I’m surprised you took this long to freak out, considering until last night you were still so hell-bent on staying for your Save Silas project.”

 

“I’m not freaking out!” She attempts to pull her hand, but Carmilla doesn’t relent. Finally, she huffs. “Fine. Maybe I am. A little. Kind of. Whatever. The pressing problem right now is fund, right? If all it takes is for us to go retrieve some pricey, ancient relics that Silas can put on sale, I can stand that. What I can’t stand is being forced to watch you go on a mission god knows where, doing god knows what.” She shudders at the memories of watching Carmilla leave to retrieve the Blade of Hastur on one of her old videos.

 

Carmilla snorts. “She’s my sister. She won’t harm me.”

 

“Well, excuse me for not trusting the warmth of your familial bond.” Laura exhales, rather noisily. With a frustrated groan, she lies on her back and pulls Carmilla on top of her. “I still don’t like not knowing what’s behind Mattie’s plan, but if helping you get those relics will help fund the school, I’ll do it.” She pauses, unconsciously biting her lower lip. Carmilla groans at the sight, and she shifts higher that her hips meet Laura’s. “You made a big gesture for me,” Laura speaks again, though much softer. “I think I can do this small thing for you in return.”

 

Carmilla touches her fingertips to Laura’s bottom lip, liberating it from the gentle pressure of her teeth. “Small?” Her whisper is almost inaudible. “I don’t think you’re aware of how much you occupy the space that is left in my heart.” Carmilla’s fingers leave Laura’s lip, but her thumb moves up to trace it. “Thank you for willing to come with me.”

 

Humming an affirmation, Laura tilts her head to steal a quick kiss from Carmilla. “Why are you so good to me,” she murmurs.

 

“You give me no choice, cupcake,” Carmilla confirms good-humoredly. She brings Laura hand to her lips and kisses its knuckles one by one. Slowly, tantalizingly, she guides Laura’s hand down her body until it slips beneath the waistband of her shorts. “Now let me start proving it by warming your cold hands.”

 

-.-.-

 

Carmilla sleeps the whole short flight to Istanbul, their first stop, and only wakes up when Laura hits her head on the seat separator between them as the pilot announces that the plane is thirty minutes away from landing. She grouches for being awoken thirty minutes too early, but she holds Laura’s hand until the plane lands and decelerates on the runway.

 

Laura sees a display of the nave of the Hagia Sophia on an advertisement, and she tugs at Carmilla’s hand.

 

Carmilla follows the direction of Laura’s eyes. “Ah yes. Ayasofya.” At Laura’s puzzled expression, she taps the frown between Laura’s eyebrows. “That’s how the locals called it, cupcake. It was a mosque when I last visited it.” Carmilla’s smile turns wistful. “Before I was confined, I mean.”

 

Laura doesn’t say anything, but she buys a Hagia Sophia snow globe the size of her TARDIS mug in one of the duty free stores when Carmilla goes to the restroom for her soymilk break and saves it in her backpack to give to Carmilla later. Carmilla holds her hand again when they queue for the immigration check and after. Later, Laura is so glad she does, because her heart jumps to her throat as she finds that the driver who picks them at the arrival gate is a bearded Cyclops.

 

“Relax,” Carmilla says, as if out of a thousand people at the airport, the Cyclops is only visible to the two of them. She turns to the Cyclops. “Doing well, Emmet?”

 

The Cyclops nods at her. “Countess Karnstein.” He bows a little to Laura, taking her luggage from her. “Human lady. This way, please.”

 

The luxury SUV that awaits them is not what Laura imagines of her ride to be. She might have romanticized it a bit, she admits—a dusty, Indiana Jones-esque Jeep, but still. Aren’t they on this mission because of Silas’ financial problems?

 

Carmilla climbs to the backseat and slides the compartment window open. “How long will it take to get there, Emmet?” she asks the Cyclops, who takes the driver seat.

 

“Eight hours, approximately,” Emmet answers. “Would the human lady require a stop for refreshment?”

 

“Nah, we’ll be fine.”

 

“Would she want to take the in-city route?”

 

“If you can pass the Hagia Sophia, that’ll be great.”

 

“And while you’re in town, would you want to drop by Master Radu’s place?”

 

For a brief moment, Carmilla’s expression turns hard. “No.”

 

Laura turns to her. “Who?”

 

Carmilla only shrugs. “No one.”

 

Emmet starts the engine, saying, “Very well, Countess.”

 

Carmilla shuts the compartment window close, and when she turns to Laura, she finds two glaring eyes and a tight set of lips. “What?”

 

“Would you stop talking to people about me while I’m next to you?”

 

Carmilla raises both hands, an indirect gesture of not wanting to have a fight, and Laura huffs, throwing her back to the—appreciatively—plush seat.

 

Carmilla nudges her shoulder, gentle yet tentative. “You’re not going to ignore me for the whole eight-hour ride, are you?”

 

“I can.” Laura pouts. A glance at Carmilla lets her know that Carmilla is holding back a smile. “But revenge is always sweeter, isn’t it?”

 

Carmilla raises an eyebrow, and Laura can’t resist pulling her closer to kiss the corner of her mouth. Pulling back, she again bites her bottom lip if only to see Carmilla’s eyes narrow and hear the low growl emit from Carmilla’s throat.

 

Revenge in Samarkand.

 

It sounds sweet already.

 

-.-.-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm wondering if any of you good souls would be willing to beta read this fic for me. There are still five chapters left, and while I don't have any problems working on my own, a beta reader's insight is beyond valuable and greatly admirable. Do let me know if you're interested!


	3. in which the monarchs’ tradition of bathing on the roof is not that ancient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't thank the generous soul of broodygaycarmilla enough for betaing. Here's to le beta!

 

 

**(three) in which the monarchs’ tradition of bathing on the roof is not that ancient**

 

Emmet the Cyclops drives them all the way pass the entrance gate of Samarkand. Night has fallen a few hours ago, a sea of stars flooding the sky above, and Carmilla has been looking out the window ever since. Exhausted from the flight and ride, Laura lays her head on Carmilla’s shoulder, absentmindedly stroking Carmilla’s knee, dozing off at the sensation of Carmilla’s running her fingers through her hair. Blanketed by the night, the road from Istanbul to Samarkand is merely a blurry flash of sights too swift to be caught by human eyes.

 

She jumps awake and misses headbutting Carmilla on the chin by half an inch. “It can’t be real!”

 

With a wince caused by the sudden shrill against her ears, Carmilla puts a hand on Laura’s shoulder. “What?”

 

“It can’t be real,” Laura repeats, taking Carmilla’s hand off of her shoulder. “This trip can’t be real. A cross-country road this long is impossible to be traveled in just eight hours.” She turns to the separator window. “Where’s that Cyclops driver? I need to talk to him.”

 

Carmilla raises an eyebrow.

 

Laura knows that look. “Oh my god,” she breathes out. “We’re really going to Samarkand _Samarkand_ , aren’t’ we?”

 

Carmilla winces again. “I hope you’re done with the banshee shrieking. How many Samarkands do you think exist in the world, really?”

 

“I mean,” Laura says in a quieter voice, “there’s no way we can finish a—what—two? Three? Three-day trip in just eight hours.” Before Carmilla can say anything, she puts a hand over Carmilla’s mouth. “And don’t you dare ‘Cupcake, I thought you’d done your research’ me. I know, I know. I should’ve done a more thorough background checking.”

 

Against her palm, she can feel Carmilla’s mouth curve into a smile. She doesn’t resist when Carmilla brings her hand down. “Cupcake,” Carmilla begins, and Laura braces herself for either an acerbic or smart-assed remark. In the dim light of the SUV’s cabin, the softness of Carmilla’s smile gives way to a grin. “I thought you’d done your research.”

 

She smacks that smart mouth with her own. Twice. For good measure, that is.

 

Emmet continues driving.

 

-.-.-

 

Laura isn’t given the time to linger and admire the carved bricks of the entrance arc of Gur-e-Amir—the name means the Tomb of the Chieftain in the local language, Carmilla says—as Emmet’s gruff voice calls Carmilla and her to follow him. She eyes his back warily, because though the pitch-black night provides a decent cover, surely the first sister school of Silas they have to visit can’t be a landmark as obvious as this.

 

“I don’t feel comfortable conducting whatever Silas shady business we need to do in a sacred place of worship,” she whispers to Carmilla, eyeing the minaret that stands guard to the darkened octahedral building.

 

“It’s a mausoleum, not a mosque,” Carmilla clarifies.

 

“Still.”

 

“Relax. I know some of the people who lived there.” She pauses. “Technically.”

 

Before Laura can ask more questions, Emmet raps on a giant pillar what looks like a series of Morse codes with his knuckles and a trapdoor that leads to a long, winding stairs opens before his feet. He looks over his shoulder and tilts his head to sign to them to follow him. Laura thinks of cobbled Diagon Alley and magic banks guarded by magical creatures and wishes that no dragons or, worse, indiscriminating hungry vampires, await them down below.

 

“I hope they’ve prepared dinner.”

 

Speaking of hungry vampires.

 

“You’ve fed earlier,” she says, before continuing with uncertainty, “haven’t you?”

 

Carmilla only shrugs.

 

“This way, Countess,” Emmet interrupts again as he opens a thick wooden door at the end of the stairs. Soft lights against honey-colored walls greet Laura’s eyes and she zeroes in on a severe-looking man with a well-trimmed beard across the room. Emmet’s single eye closes for a brief moment as if he were composing himself, and he bows at the man, who in returns nods stiffly at him.

 

“I’ll take it from here, Emmet,” the man says. He watches Carmilla with rapt attention. “I hope the journey was pleasant for the both of you.”

 

Carmilla rolls her eyes.

 

“Insolent as usual, Karnstein.” The bearded man shifts his attention to Laura instead. “And you, human child, I hope having this brooding countess as your travel companion did not spoil your mood for tomorrow’s business.”

 

Carmilla rolls her eyes again, this time with an exasperated sigh. “Laura, meet Timur.”

 

“Also known in your language as Tamerlane,” the man adds. “Lord of Samarkand, vanquisher of millions, conqueror of Eurasia, founder of empires, and king of kings.”

 

Whether the long epithet is intended to impress or intimidate her is not something Laura is sure of, but having dealt with vampires and other not-so friendly supernatural beings for a semester is apparently enough to elevate her level of tolerance towards surprises. She resists grimacing, though.

 

“Your sister the Chair’s letter came earlier, so I’d like to cut this business short,” Timur intones. “Come tomorrow, you are free to take the heirlooms that are yours by default and the rest of what I have promised your mother. You are also welcome to help yourself here so long you are not taking anything that is not meant to be yours.”

 

Laura leans into Carmilla, whispering, “Do all vampires speak Apple user license agreement like him?”

 

Carmilla snorts, unfazed. So much for being the official chargé d'affaires for the school, Laura thinks. “Only when you’re doing Silas-related business. Other than that, we’re more laidback and bloodier.” She turns to Timur again. “So? That’s it?”

 

“That’s it.”

 

“Easier than I thought,” Carmilla murmurs, more to herself than to Timur.

 

He looks almost as unfazed as Carmilla that Laura thinks they might even be related in a non-vampiric way. “Why would I want to make an easy deal difficult,” he drawls. “The sooner the school gets its fund, the sooner life can go back to normal, child.”

 

Except that this kind of life is far from normal, Laura thinks.

 

At the jibe, Carmilla bristles. “I’m not a child.”

 

“Juvenile, then,” Timur says, the ends of his mustache rising as he smirks. “The fledgling kaiserin. Youngest of us all, fairest and most loved.”

 

The muscles on Carmilla’s cheeks twitch, and Laura is worried that she may do something worse than just baring her teeth. She reaches to grab Carmilla’s fingers, fleeting and light, but at the touch Carmilla’s tense shoulders ease a little.

 

Carmilla inhales, quiet, and exhales slowly. “So,” her voice is still tight , “does the master of the house allow us to excuse ourselves for the night?”

 

Timur calls for Emmet, who for the length of the conversation has distanced himself and stood by the door, and tells him to show Carmilla and Laura to their chambers.

 

“We only need one room,” Carmilla remarks.

 

Timur’s eyebrows rise, and for a brief moment Laura is prepared for yet another verbal barrage of how the prized Mother’s dearest deserves more than just a lowly human. To her surprise, Timur says nothing, and Laura is again unsure whether she should be thankful or alarmed for future possibilities.

 

One of the future possibilities turns out to be immediate—as immediate as the moment Carmilla closes the door to their chamber behind her.

 

Carmilla pulls her close and burrows her face on the crook of Laura’s neck. Her nose grazes the baby hair on Laura’s nape, and her lips are cold against her Laura’s skin. Her arms around Laura’s midriff are firm, yet loose enough to not smother her. Carmilla exhales, and along with it comes off some of the weight that has been apparent of her shoulders. Laura considers asking if she were alright—she’s not, she knows—and decides against it. Instead, she brings her hands to cover Carmilla’s arms, hesitantly patting and stroking them.

 

“Even when he was king, old man Timur never greeted people standing because he’s lame. He walked with a limp. He hated his human sons. He was supposed to be succeeded by his grandson, but the poor lad died young and so Timur built this mausoleum for him. He likes poetry but hates surrealism—which automatically lands him at odds with me in my book. His favorite blood type is A+. My mother and her siblings thought he’s the most okay of all warlords they sired—Nebuchadnezzar, Ying Zeng, and Temujin were all a pain in the ass. ” Carmilla turns her hands so that her palms meet Laura’s. She sighs, and Laura can feel more tension leave Carmilla’s body. “Just as he knows how to rile me up, I know as much of him.” She snickers. “Serves the old man right for underestimating me.”

 

“Child,” Laura parodies Timur’s words. “Wasn’t Will the youngest, though?”

 

“Mother didn’t sire anyone after me. Hell, she didn’t even sire Will until after I was interred.”

 

Until _she_ interred you, Laura wants to say.

 

She tries to turn in Carmilla’s arms, but Carmilla tightens her arms around her. “A little bit more,” she says, shuddering a little as she exhales, and Laura feels the tremble.

 

She relents. “Alright.” Then she continues in a teasing tone, “Countess fairest and most loved.”

 

Carmilla groans. “Don’t remind me.”

 

“I agree, though.”

 

Behind her, Carmilla stills. Slowly, she turns Laura to face her. Somehow the mix of disbelief and hopeful wariness on Carmilla’s face sows a pang in Laura’s chest.

 

“What? You didn’t think I’d call my girlfriend fair and beloved?” She loops her arms around Carmilla’s neck. “Your lack of faith in me is disappointing, Carm.”

 

“I—no—I mean—well.” Carmilla struggles with words for some embarrassing moments, but she eventually smiles, small and still wary but one that Laura has grown to be familiar with and love. Carmilla clears her throat. “I like it when you call me yours.”

 

“Mine?”

 

“Yours.”

 

“Yours, too, then,” Laura echoes, fingers slipping through Carmilla’s hair, tugging her head down, bringing her lips closer to her own, closing the mere inch that separates them. “Yours.”

 

-.-.-

 

In the wee hour of morning, Laura considers making a vlog totaling her journey so far as an aide to Silas’ chargé d'affaires, but she then remembers that she is not to contact anyone at Silas unless _Mattie_ contacts her. Her worry of not knowing if Mattie were scaring students into fleeing or, worse, mutilating some poor freshmen who get lost on campus wars with Carmilla’s explicit request at the beginning of their journey— _I’m asking you to trust_ my _sister_.

 

Immortal warlords and their bizarre employees aside, Laura is convinced that she will never understand vampires save one that is _hers_ , who is sleeping peacefully next to her, half covered by a blanket and the rest by messy black hair. The collar of the thin shirt Carmilla wears is dragged down by the arm Laura has over her chest, revealing the clavicles and a hint of her cleavage. Laura wants to run her fingers over the bones and trace the skin she has become familiar and greedy of.

 

She shudders.

 

Hers. She kinda likes that. Hers.

 

-.-.-

 

Comes morning, her girlfriend is gone.

 

Laura jumps off of the bed, throwing the blanket aside, and the only sign of Carmilla that she finds is the shallow indentation her head has left on the pillow. The spot where her body lied has grown cold. A cold dread breaks in her chest. Where can Carmilla be—here, in a hidden lair of ancient vampires who shaped and destroyed civilization, surrounded by her kin—

 

“Good morning.”

 

Laura’s head whips so fast towards the door that she can sense the oncoming cricks.

 

A voluptuous middle-aged woman in a loose tunic displays a harmless grin at Laura’s confusion. The crow’s feet at the corners of the woman’s eyes are made more visible as she smiles. The woman waves a hand, and the ringlet on each side of her face spring to life as if dancing with the chirpy, cheerful aura she emits. “Your dear attendee is currently occupied but rest assured she is treated as an honored guest she is,” the woman says, as if reading Laura’s mind. “And before you ask, yes, I too am a vampire.”

 

“Oh.” Laura nods, dumfounded.

 

“Now, now.” The woman beckons her closer with a flick of her wrist, and Laura’s legs move on their own accord. Another flick of her wrist sends her clothes to don themselves over her. The woman looks pleased with the result as she smiles wider. “Should we proceed to business, dear?” She offers an arm.

 

Still strung by the unseen power the woman holds over her, Laura drapes her arm over the woman’s.

 

“I apologize for making haste, but truly we shouldn’t waste our precious time. Experience has taught me that you humans are not too keen on staying idle.”

 

“I’m sorry, but who—”

 

“Oh, pardon me.” The woman laughs, patting Laura’s arm. “I am called many names, but Bathsheba is most endear to me.”

 

Her brain choses the moment to process the information remarkably fast, and even under the woman’s influence, Laura’s feet stop moving in shock.

 

Bathsheba chuckles and adds a bit more pull to get Laura walk again. “You might haven’t heard of me beyond the myth, but surely you knew my sister, did you not? Your action led to her demise, after all. Younger by a millennium, she was. Feisty, fierce, and quick to anger, but a sister nonetheless.” Her clasp on Laura’s hand tightens, if briefly. “Worry not, human child, for my folk believes revenge is hereditary, and even that looks meaningless over time.”

 

“A niece of yours wants me dead out of revenge,” Laura forces out.

 

“And another prizes your life above everything,” Bathsheba counters calmly.

 

They walk pass an arched gate made of white marble and into a high, vast chamber. Giant pillars similar to the ones above Timur’s lair stand erect around what looks like a steaming pool. Rock boulders enclose the area, and a dark, familiar silhouette is visible near one of the curtained wall niches. Laura recognizes the silhouette without the doubt. She is about to call Carmilla’s name, but Bathsheba tugs at her hand and shakes her head. Bathsheba looks at her, tilting Laura’s chin up with a finger. “I assume the Chair has instructed you to aid Carmilla to make sure the heirlooms get to Silas safely, has she not?” Bathsheba asks.

 

“Yes.”

 

“See, nowhere in her letter did she detail the method with which Timur should give the heirlooms to Carmilla, and to that I offered my assistance.”

 

“But Timur—”

 

“Now, now. My dearest Timur could never refuse me. So now you, my dear, will have to ask Carmilla to come here.”

 

Laura looks at her, then at the bath, then at her again. “Is this some kind of a test?”

 

Bathsheba smiles. “Only if you think of it as one.”

 

“And if I don’t?”

 

“A confirmation, perhaps.”

 

“Of what?”

 

“Of whatever it is that your heart is telling you.”

 

Laura blinks. Behind the niche curtains, Carmilla’s silhouette stands.

 

“You know what people say about my bath,” Bathsheba says. “Even the mightiest of your kin is not invulnerable once they are inside my bath. They’re not wrong. My bath treasures memories. Truths. And remember, child, that you human are a constellation of memories.” She gestures at both Laura and Carmilla. “The first truth you will see is who you are today. The second is what prohibition limits your present self.” She places both hands on Laura’s shoulders and squeezes lightly. “The last is the deepest. The most honest and yet the ugliest truth. Yet you, human child, see in Carmilla what my sister failed to see, and Carmilla saw in you something worth defying my sister. I am willing to bet on that.” Bathsheba squeezes once again, smiling—almost smirking. “Though to be honest I have nothing to lose and will enjoy whatever comes out from the bet.”

 

Bathsheba lets go of her, and Laura wobbles a little on her feet.

 

“I’ll see you on the other side,” Bathsheba says, pushing Laura towards the bath and disappearing in a thick cloud of smoke.

 

As if on cue, the niche curtains are pulled open.

 

Somehow, Laura finds Carmilla’s frown, in lack of better words, is endearing.

 

“Did Bathsheba say something?” Carmilla asks. “She didn’t hurt you, did she?”

 

Shaking her head, Laura reaches out to smooth the crease between Carmilla’s eyebrows with a thumb. “Nothing can surprise me more than knowing you’re somehow related to _the_ Bathsheba of old myths.”

 

Carmilla’s expression softens a little, and she covers Laura’s hand with her own. “Antediluvian vampire cult, remember?”

 

“So this is the infamous bath, huh.” At Carmilla’s nod, Laura continues. “What should we do now?”

 

“Well.” Carmilla purses her lips. “You’re already in the bath. You have to invite me inside first.” She shrugs.

 

Oh, Laura thinks. Right. Vampires.

 

She calls for Carmilla, and as Carmilla steps into the bath Laura can’t help the need to stand as close as possible to her. Winding an arm around her waist, Carmilla steals a quick kiss from one corner of her mouth.

 

“The old man says the heirlooms are on the other side of the bath.” Carmilla clicks her tongue. “Surprise, surprise. He did say I was free to take the heirlooms, but he didn’t say anything about how I should get them. The master of the house bends to the mistress who sired him, indeed.”

 

Laura is quiet for a moment. “We don’t have many options, do we?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Is whatever this bath going to show about us?”

 

“Most likely it’s going to be about _me_. I’m the one invited in, remember.” Carmilla bites her lower lip, only now realizing that the mechanism of the bath puts vampires at a disadvantage. “You don’t have to go,” she says. “I can do it by myself.”

 

“Don’t be an idiot,” she quips, throwing Carmilla’s old words back at her. She clasps Carmilla’s hand firmly. “I’m your aide, countess special envoy. I’m going.”

 

The line of Carmilla’s mouth thins, but the walls in her eyes lower a little bit more.

 

Hand in hand, they enter into the vast compound of the bath. Upon the first step, the mist clears, and Laura is treated to a whole-body experience of supernatural 4D IMAX. She watches the documentary of her life ever since Carmilla showed up that day in Room 307 at the Silas dorm. Even Carmilla has the decency to look sheepish when her old self—obnoxious, callous, and downright rude—flits through them.

 

Laura snickers. “Told you you’re a terrible roommate.”

 

At the series of images from the botched Zeta party night and the ridiculous ambush, it’s Carmilla’s turn to snicker. “That smitten, huh?”

 

“Pot, meet kettle.”

 

“At least I was honest in my courting of you.”

 

She grumbles and huffs. “I couldn’t help it. You were bad news, but you were hot bad news. Happy now?”

 

Carmilla grins. “Very.”

 

Laura watches the next series of images with gritted teeth. If she thought she couldn’t forget the way Carmilla’s expression crumble under the cruel stare of her mother— _hers_ , the memory is now imprinted in her brain. Cornered and defeated, Carmilla has never looked small.

 

Carmilla’s hand tightens over hers. “These are the past, Laura. Just memories.”

 

“Ones that I wish to not remember.”

 

Carmilla loops an arm around Laura’s shoulders. “All’s well that ends well, no?” Yet her steps stop at the following display of the next memories. “Oh look,” she says, obvious in her effort to sound uncaring despite the contrary. “The day I almost died for you.”

 

Laura stiffens. “Don’t say that.”

 

“It’s the truth, sweetling.”

 

She wonders if that, like truth, were also who Carmilla really is. _So light_ , she thinks, flexing her free hand, feeling it begin to sweat with the realization, _and yet so heavy_.

 

Unmoving with only their hands linked, they watch their first kiss; watch past Carmilla cup past Laura’s cheeks and lean in and finally closes the distance between her lips and Laura’s; watch Carmilla retreat and wait for Laura to open her eyes and believe that the kiss did happen, believe that she came back for her, believe that there was them despite everything; watch Laura sputter, to present Laura’s embarrassment, and surge in for another and another and another kiss; watch as Carmilla smile, brilliantly, for once so full of light.

 

Carmilla takes a deep breath, and when she exhales her shoulders tremble. Laura nudges her arm. “This is awkward,” Carmilla mumbles meekly, her cheeks starting to color.

 

“Yeah.” Laura lets out a nervous chuckle. “I feel like a pervert.”

 

Carmilla runs her free hand through her own hair. “Should’ve known the bath would include something like this.”

 

Laura nudges her again. “I don’t regret knowing—relieving these memories.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

She nods. “I mean, you almost—” _died_ , she wants to say, but even today she still can’t bring herself to say the word, “and you came back and that’s all that matters.”

 

Carmilla’s sigh is heavy. “I thought I wouldn’t.” She snickers, but it sounds humorless. “I said my goodbye, didn’t I? I didn’t want to die, but I was ready to. I was willing to.” She meets Laura’s eyes. “When I jumped into the pit, all I thought was that I died missing you.”

 

An invisible hand sticks itself to Laura’s chest and squeezes her heart.

 

Carmilla leans in, like her old self, but her gesture is hesitant, weighed by wariness and long-time hopefulness.

 

It is Laura who, like her old self, pulls her close by her neck and kisses Carmilla. _The first truth you will see is who you are today_ , Bathsheba’s words ring in her ears. Laura withdraws from the kiss, waits, and watches Carmilla open her eyes. Carmilla’s smile is lighter, and when she rests her forehead against Laura’s, her eyes are soft again. _This is who I am today_ , Laura thinks. _The girl who’s in love with Carmilla_.

 

Suddenly she dreads the second part of the bath’s workings. _The second is what prohibition limits your present self._ She wonders if this were the part when she is forced to air all of her dirty laundry, when _Carmilla_ is forced to bare herself. Her mouth goes dry at the thought. This is not the time, she thinks. She’s not ready, and so is Carmilla—

 

A scream cuts her thoughts, and she and Carmilla turns their head at the same time to find a figure in a ball gown lying on the ground.

 

Laura’s stomach twists as she realizes what this memory is about.

 

Carmilla looks away.

 

A red trail of blood touches the toes of Laura’s shoes. A dark, hooded figure approaches the lying body, and as the figure crouches down, it is Laura’s turn to look away. Still, she hears a weak, breathless string of pleas of _I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die_ ; hears yet another sick crunch of skin being ripped open and blood being spilled; hears past Carmilla gurgle and retch and drink from the hooded figure; hears the defining second by second when Carmilla died and was raised as who she is today.

 

She only realizes she’s been crying the moment her tears fall and mix with the blood near her feet.

 

“Hey,” Carmilla calls quietly.

 

Slowly, she lifts her head. Carmilla raises her hand and wipes her wet cheeks one by one. Her gentle hands are pale, almost as pale her past self’s lifeless ones. They won’t change, Laura knows. They’ve been like that for the last three centuries.

 

The next memories are what Carmilla’s three centuries are made of—sybaritic decadence, corruption, and horror that conclude with abject despair. With a quiet whimper, Laura hides her face on Carmilla’s neck as she hears Carmilla’s laughter, savage and inhuman amidst cries for help and mercy; hears the voice that now is her solace discuss the plan for a party and rampage; hears Ell’s voice overlap with Carmilla’s and then comes the scream and the begging and the merciless disciplining; hears a deep, cold voice discuss Carmilla’s fate with the voice of her mother; hears the scene when the coffin full of blood that holds past Carmilla a hostage, shackled and put to deathlike sleep, is lowered to the earth; hears nothing for a long time but Carmilla’s breath on her ear and the quiet rustle of her stroking the small of Laura’s back.

 

Still trembling, she whispers, “Is it over yet?”

 

Carmilla merely gives a noncommittal mumble as an answer, though her hand doesn’t stop stroking Laura’s back. Laura opens her mouth to speak again, but she ends up saying nothing. Carmilla kisses her temple, humming a random tune. When Laura finally finds the strength to look her in the eye, Carmilla gives her a weak smile.

 

“So much for an excruciating past, right,” Carmilla mumbles humorlessly.

 

“You made it sound like a mere glitch in your long history.”

 

Carmilla slips Laura’s hair behind her ear. “With time, it gets easier to deal with.”

 

Laura is quiet again for some time. “Does it get better?”

 

Then, it is Carmilla who takes time to answer. “No, not really,” she says.

 

Laura tightens her arms around Carmilla. “I know this will sound insane,” she hesitates, “but I’m glad for Ell, kind of. I’m glad you met her.”

 

“I’m glad, too,” Carmilla says. “I loved her.” There’s still that tiny pang in Laura’s chest that makes itself known whenever she hears Carmilla’s admission of Ell, but it doesn’t bother her as much as before. Carmilla continues, “Though I think I’m more glad that now I’m able to love again.”

 

 _But you’re always so capable of loving_ , Laura wants to reply. _You love me not because of your pain, but in spite of your pain_.

 

It’s not the time, she realizes. They are on a mission. Reluctantly, she lets go of Carmilla. “Come on,” she says. “The sooner we finish going through this bizarre bath, the faster we can get the heirlooms and leave.”

 

For a fleeting second, she thinks she sees Carmilla’s face fall before she recovers in an instance—or probably it’s just her imagination.

 

“Carm, what’s the third part? Bathsheba said it was the deepest, the most honest and yet the ugliest.”

 

Carmilla laughs mirthlessly. “Cupcake, you’ve seen me at my lowest. What could be uglier than that?”

 

“I am.”

 

They both turn their head at the voice—Carmilla’s, and yet not hers.

 

The last expanse of the bath is pure white. Not even their shadows are visible, and there’s no sight of the horizon. The overwhelming whiteness is only tarnished by a lone figure in the middle: a Carmilla who sits cross-legged, dark hair against pale skin, bare in the most literal sense.

 

While Laura stares and stares, the Carmilla next to her opens and closes her mouth at the sight of the other her.

 

“Hey,” the other Carmilla greets.

 

Carmilla’s hand swings to cover Laura’s eyes, but Laura catches it and holds it away from her face. “Don’t look,” she snaps.

 

“What? It’s you,” Laura reasons.

 

“It’s not me,” Carmilla scowls.

 

“Of course I _am_ ,” the other Carmilla says. Standing with the grace of a sleek feline, she walks towards them both. “Or, dare I say, the more honest you.”

 

Carmilla puts Laura behind her. “Don’t come any closer or—”

 

“Or what?” the other Carmilla taunts, tilting her head. “You’ll wring my neck? Darling, you know we vampires can’t kill _ourselves_.” She grins, a bit more feral than the real Carmilla that Laura’s ever seen.

 

“You’re not real,” Carmilla snaps. At her sides, her hands flex into claws.

 

“I’m as real as you are,” the other Carmilla lifts a hand, running a finger over the neckline of Carmilla’s shirt. “My hand is yours, and so is my touch.” She hooks the finger on the neckline, pulling downward to make it even lower. She takes one more step, now standing eye-to-eye with Carmilla. “I’m just better at knowing what I want.”

 

“You—”

 

If Laura thinks that Bathsheba’s bath is prone to making people lose their sanity, she is now certain she’s not exaggerating.

 

She knows how it feels to kiss Carmilla, and she too has seen how she looks when she kisses Carmilla, but to see _Carmilla kiss Carmilla_ is pure insanity. The other Carmilla is hungry, even she can sense that, but seeing it makes the realization even more insane. She shouldn’t find herself _wanting_.

 

The other Carmilla breaks the kiss with a pant, and Carmilla’s low growl makes Laura’s knees feel like jelly. The other Carmilla sidesteps Carmilla, now standing before Laura, and her grin turns feral. Still dazed, Carmilla stands a bystander.

 

“Look at her,” the other Carmilla coos. “I know how much you want her—how much _we_ want her.” She strokes Laura’s hair.

 

“Don’t—” Carmilla forces out another growl.

 

“What? You don’t?” The other Carmilla walks circling Laura, light on her feet, playful and at the same time predatory.

 

“I—”

 

“Admit it.” The other Carmilla now stands behind Laura, and Laura isn’t sure whether she’s spellbound by the exchange. “Admit it.”

 

“I—” Carmilla stops herself, and the other Carmilla tilts her head, taunting, waiting. “I do,” Carmilla rasps out, her voice low and hoarse. “I want her. All the time. Always.”

 

“And yet look at how afraid you are,” the other Carmilla sweeps Laura’s hair aside to one shoulder, baring her neck. She drops a kiss on the joint between Laura’s neck and shoulder. “Despite her wanting the same.”

 

She sees Carmilla swallow, look away in frustration, and fix a helpless stare at her. The other Carmilla waves a hand, and Carmilla’s clothes disappear. Laura’s eyes bulge, and the other Carmilla chuckles behind her and curls a hand to beckon Carmilla closer. The other Carmilla cups one of Laura’s breasts, and she gives a squeeze that makes her spill some moans. The same hand moves lower, fingers spread against her stomach, and goes under her shirt, flirting with the waistband of her pants.

 

“Laura,” Carmilla says, voice now gravel with hunger. “Please. _Please_. You must not think ill of me just because—”

 

She is cut short as the other Carmilla shoves Laura at her. Before she even has the chance to steady Laura, the other Carmilla swirls Laura around and yanks her hair to tip her head up.

 

“Just because you want this?” the other Carmilla interrupts. “Just because _we_ want to claim her, sink our teeth in her flesh, and feed from her?” She sneers. “You want to ravage. Eat. Claim.”

 

Carmilla shuts her eyes, unable to maintain eye contact, looking down. “Stop.”

 

“Stop?” the other Carmilla laughs derisively. “You are me. Why don’t you tell _yourself_ to stop?”

 

Carmilla’s hand shoots out to grasps her other self’s shoulder, fingers clutching hard, nails almost piercing the skin.

 

Unimpressed, the other Carmilla wrenches Carmilla’s hand off of her and leads it towards the heat between Laura’s thighs. “What a fool,” she spats. “Always too afraid to see the truth.” She turns to look Laura in the eye. “And you. Now you see her,” the other Carmilla says to Laura. “All of her— _me_.”

 

Laura bites her bottom lip to prevent herself from crying out: this creature of unadulterated want, this hungry predator, this deepest, most honest, and yet ugliest part of Carmilla. The other Carmilla’s unsaid words of _what are you going to do now_ goes to Laura’s mind. The other Carmilla doesn’t say anything, but even when she’s this dark and heavy, Laura finds in her eyes what she’s always found in Carmilla.

 

_You love me in spite of your pain._

 

She takes a deep breath.

 

She turns to look at Carmilla, the one behind her, the girl who comes crashing into her life as a terrible roommate, initiates her to a world that she has yet understood as a reluctant ally, and stays with her as a lover.

 

_Then let me love all of you._

 

She lets her kisses, as hungry as the other Carmilla’s previous ones, do the talking. Fingers press onto the other Carmilla’s jaw, making her open her mouth, and her tongue surges forward, inside. Wet warmth greets her, and Carmilla behind her swallows a guttural moan at the sight. At the sound, Laura presses against the back of the hands between her legs, setting them to motion.

 

She tears her lips apart from Carmilla’s, throwing her head back only to have her neck ravaged by two pair of wanton mouths. She calls Carmilla’s name once, almost a growl, and the other Carmilla’s mouth curves into a smile against her neck. The other Carmilla nips once, twice, and lavishes the skin with small licks.

 

“Yes?”

 

Laura no longer knows which Carmilla speaks; which Carmilla runs the hands from her sides to her breasts to flick, roll, and pinch her nipples to hardness; which Carmilla presses her hands against her inner thighs; which Carmilla tugs at her earlobe between her teeth and traces the shell; which Carmilla finally, finally touch her between her legs, rubbing, smearing wetness, going inside too slowly.

 

“Yes?”

 

That question again, amidst the intensity of working fingers and mouths. Laura opens her mouth to scream, but the other Carmilla silences her with a deep kiss. Fangs, she dimly notices.

 

 _Oh_.

 

One of her hands pulls the other Carmilla’s hair, breaking the kiss. Breathing hard, she turns to Carmilla behind her, who also stops marking her neck. Laura’s other hand cups Carmilla’s jaw, and Carmilla leans onto her palm. Laura pulls her close towards her neck. Heat pools in the pit of her stomach, and a sharp intake of breath lets her know that Carmilla gets her intention. Sandwiched between them, Laura can feel both of them still and wait.

 

“Yes.”

 

She hears a guttural growl, and sharp teeth break her skin and pierce the flesh. The sting, similar to the first time Carmilla bit her, remains unchanged, and she gasps for air as if it would lessen the pain. One of them cradles her head, angling her for better leverage. The heat from her stomach spreads all over her body, and it intensifies even more between her legs. Their hands regain their momentum and move again—faster and harder on her clit, deeper in her, more fingers than she’s ever had fitting into her—stretching, pushing, stoking fire from the inside. Laura arches, her body giving in to the sensation and seeking for more, so she pushes Carmilla’s head down firmer to her neck. The hand on the back of her head grips her scalp so hard, and she sways backward. Only the both of them keep her standing.

 

She calls Carmilla’s name again, more like a shout, pushing against the other Carmilla’s chest, clutching against the arm of the one behind her. Missions are forgotten, duties laid aside, senses torn asunder—only Carmilla remains. She comes as she registers Carmilla’s red-stained lips.

 

 _You’ve always been a messy eater_ , her brain registers dazedly.

 

Behind her, Carmilla laps and suckles at the puncture wounds. In front of her, Carmilla’s tongue licks the blood from her skin. Laura watches the lean column of her throat move up and down as she swallows.

 

Still dizzy from the feeding and with lust thrumming inside her, Laura leans in to kiss the one behind her. She tastes metallic tang, like that day when Carmilla was brought back to Room 307 from the pit, she fed Carmilla blood from her soymilk carton, and she finally had the kisses she wanted for the first time.

 

The diligent hands between her legs don’t cease their movement. Still at such great heights, Laura’s breath catches as the other Carmilla smirks and ducks her head to trail wet, lingering kisses down her body. Behind her, Carmilla turns her head to claim her mouth with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. Laura is by now certain she is going to die—die, sweetly die—into Carmilla.[1]

 

Now she knows why even the mightiest human is not invulnerable once inside Bathsheba’s bath.

 

-.-.-

 

Carmilla has to carry her to exit the bath as Laura is too spent, drained, consumed— _fucked stupid_ , she much later adds in a self-reflection—to even stand on her own. Lethargy and drowsiness almost drowns Laura completely, but what little energy is left in her picks up Bathsheba’s voice as she stands between Carmilla and the exit.

 

“Congratulations for surviving my bath,” Bathsheba says. “Took you long enough.”

 

Next to her, Timur snickers.

 

Carmilla only shrugs, and in her arms Laura shifts with the move. Laura’s hand falls from her side. She nuzzles up to Carmilla’s collarbones, and Carmilla bends to kiss the crown of her head.

 

Bathsheba watches, and after some tense seconds, she reaches out to lift Laura’s hand and folds it over her torso. “Peculiar human,” she muses out loud, not unkindly.

 

“One that kills Lilita, frustrates Matska, and fascinates you,” Timur adds, looking at Carmilla. “Your family surely has a more colorful life with this child’s presence.”

 

Laura wants to speak, but when she opens her mouth her throat is too raw and her voice too hoarse. Carmilla looks down at her, holding her a little tighter.

 

“A poet once read to me,” Carmilla begins, “’Mortal, guilty, but to me the entirely beautiful.’[2]

 

Bathsheba’s hand rests over Laura’s for a moment before she withdraws it. “My business here is done, Timur.” She looks at her sired offspring before turning to Carmilla again. “Send my greetings to Matska.”

 

Laura thinks she hears Carmilla say something about Istanbul to Bathsheba and Timur, but she can’t register anything. Even her eyelids are heavy. The next moment she forces her eyes to open, there’s a soft bed against her back and Carmilla is pulling a blanket over her.

 

“—ired.”

 

“Mm?”

 

“I ache everywhere.”

 

A low chuckle. “Of course. We’ll hit Timur’s hot spring first thing tomorrow.” A pause. “Regular bath, I promise.”

 

“Alright.” She feels Carmilla lie next to her, close and tender. “Night, Carm.”

 

“Good night, Laura.”

 

-.-.-

 

 

 

[1] from J.S. Le Fanu’s _Carmilla_.

[2] from W.H. Auden’s _Lullaby_.


End file.
